Brad Wheeler

This story of personal redemption tacks drama by the nautical mile. "The ocean is always trying to kill you,” says Edwards, a woman like most who knows about facing high odds and salty conditions.

It’s a working-class story, albeit one that doesn’t involve officially recognized "work,” which raises questions about police corruption and racially slanted drug policies. Speaking of questions, why is a white character being held up as a shining symbol of the black man’s plight? Something to consider. Otherwise, White Boy Rick has much to say yes to.

With no cutaways, the film’s story and the momentum of the unlikely robbers seems as unstoppable as the camera. The characters are confused, adrenalinized and breathless, as are you. Because the deal feels real.

Amir Bar-Lev’s excellent, definitive film on the Haight-Ashbury acid-testers is long – four fly-by hours – but there are very few wasted moments.

Toes will tap, a tear or two might be shed – a complex story about a deceivingly complex musical is adoringly told and ultimately simplified. “As long as humankind continues to have struggles,” asserts one talking head, “Fiddler on the Roof will be there.” File under: The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Crosby, as we learn in the fascinating documentary David Crosby: Remember My Name, is no easy rider. He’s no easy anything. What he is is stunningly self-aware, relentlessly candid and highly interested in the subject at hand, which is himself.

Even if you’d rather die than be trapped in a broken elevator with endless Kenny G music, Lane’s excellent accomplishment is making 97 minutes about the musician so much smart fun.

This film moves from black satire to a horror-thriller so smoothly you don’t even realize it’s happening – like the proverbial slow-boiling frog. Grim stuff, gloriously so.

Director Andersen’s pacing is dynamic, allowing white-knuckled viewers to catch their breaths before he takes it away again. This isn’t a sequel, it’s an after-shock – and a doozy at that.

If you see Dionne Warwick as the greatest-ever interpreter of the music of lyricist Hal David and composer Burt Bacharach, you wouldn’t be wrong. There’s more to her story, however, as shown by this lively, contextual bio-doc.

Yes, hallelujahs are in order.

A delightful and polished stop-motion adventure-comedy and droll comment on colonialism.

The film is graceful visually and beautifully harrowing; its worry for a planet and hope for humanity is reasoned and well-explained.

Apologies to Eugene Levy, but the award for best supporting actor in the role of an adorably well-meaning father goes to the superb Josh Hamilton.

The Middle Man is an understated gem.

Director Jeremy Sims probably uses a setting-sun metaphor more than necessary, but otherwise his decisions are immaculate and his film should hold audiences in thrall. On a journey of self-discovery, the metre keeps running. Might as well, Last Cab tells us, get your money’s worth.

Co-directors Antonio Santini and Dan Sickles tell the story gracefully, doling out Dina's tragic backstory in excellent increments.

Zhao’s artful look into the American West is a lightly brooding winner. Clearly this isn’t her first time at the rodeo.

LaBeouf’s script crackles with penetrating dialogue. His acting – LaBeouf portrays a version of his own father – might be the finest of his career.

Director Maggs tells a tough, sympathetic story in an imaginative way that makes Goalie feel like a war story.

A home invasion story that is as artfully terrifying as "Home Alone" was entertainingly hilarious.

French director Julia Ducournau, however, delivers a mindblower that keeps you guessing for all of the film’s excellent 108 minutes. She shocks; she entertains; she wickedly defies expectations.

Scored intensely and photographed vividly, the electric film imagines a small slice of doomsday with horrific believability.

The performances are pitch perfect; the soundtrack is evocative; the photography is artful. Nothing is overdone, and nothing is really resolved.

Denis Villeneuve’s new Dune is a breathtaking film worthy of the visionary Herbert’s rich, sophisticated source material.

The racial context is incisive; the retelling is tense, tight and chilling. These kinds of stories are emotionally wrenching to watch but can’t be told too often.

Where’s My Roy Cohn? is brash and relentless, much like the man himself. We won’t need to wait for a sequel. Because of the ascension of Cohn’s most eagerly unscrupulous student, we’re watching Part II unfold as we speak.

The cinematography is evocative – rainy, rich, gritty and raw, for this inspiring but not always pretty story – and Curtis is 100-per-cent watchable as a puffy, mumbling shuffler whose chess lessons double as life strategies.